


outmoded

by beamkatanachronicles



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU, M/M, Species Swap, reverse au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beamkatanachronicles/pseuds/beamkatanachronicles
Summary: Detective Connor Raymond is the Detroit PD's newest bright-eyed rookie, and he's just been assigned his very first android case... as well as his first android "partner". An old AN500, to be exact: like hell CyberLife would trust some fledgling investigator with an advanced prototype. But it's not like Connor to complain. Android or not, he's positive his partner's experience is just as good as any other seasoned officer's.If only Hank could believe that much, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this mistake is dedicated to nico and hot young shawshank redemption clancy brown, i may or may not continue with other snippets later.... pls enjoy

He'll never know how an entire police station could manage to simply misplace an android, but the Detroit PD, as usual, is full of surprises. 

What's more surprising is that it's enough to actually make him, the resident brown-noser, late. By the time Connor finally pulls up to the crime scene he's 15 minutes behind schedule: sopping wet, without his CyberLife-designated partner, and with all the faked nonchalance he's got it in him to muster. He kills the engine and yanks the key out of the ignition in one smooth motion; he nearly slams the door on his coat in his rush but just makes it out, stomping through the wet, the rain seeping through his socks. 

"Excuse me." No dice. He whips out his badge and repeats himself, upping the volume: "Excuse me!" and pushes more insistently through the cameras and spectators, at last moving through to the front of the police line. "Sorry I'm late-- Detective Connor Raymond! I'm going to need to get inside, right away!" 

The officer just behind the line gives him a look of utter venom. 

"Call your damn android off of us already, all right?" he spits. "We can't give him authorization unless you're here, and the plastic prick won't stop trying to force his way through."

"My what?" 

"Well, Detective, looks like you finally decided to show up."

Which is when Connor, at last, notices the tall, sandy-haired man scowling down at him from 5 feet away. No-- the LED on his temple, glowing blue in the darkness, says otherwise. "You're the--"

"Yeah. I'm Hank. The android sent by CyberLife. I assumed they'd be assigning me to the lieutenant, not some kid fresh out of the academy. Now tell this fucker that I have a mission directive that he's disrupting or I'm gonna infect his home network with every virus known to man."

Connor blinks, too dumbfounded to protest. (Androids can be rude?)

"Er... in that case," he turns to the sputtering officer and inclines his head in Hank's direction. "He's with me." 

Hank huffs his approval; the officer, glaring daggers at the both of them now, does not. Connor manages a strained, yet polite grin as he turns back to his partner once more.

"It's a pleasure to work with you, Hank." 

"Let's begin the investigation." 

...Well, at least he found the android.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are maniacs lmao. thank you for the warm reception; enjoy the fic and look forward to some Interesting Cameos in the future! :^) i'm gonna go fight david cage behind my local panera bread.

“So, Detective.”

“Sir.” 

Fowler leans forward in his chair, fingers steepled. “Nice work with the deviant last night. Shame about the interrogation—“ Connor’s teeth grit together, though his mouth remains fixed, expression placid— “But it wasn’t a complete loss if you got something out of it. Guess you really can’t help when those things wanna go off.”

“I suppose not, sir.” 

Both men can’t help the glance they spare for the row of police androids charging up against the station’s far wall, perfectly visible through the glass doors of Fowler’s office. 

His gaze snaps back just as Connor’s does. “Listen up, Connor.” 

Connor straightens, sitting taller in his chair. “Yes, Captain?”

“You’ve done good work on this deviant investigation so far. Maybe,” and even Fowler can’t keep himself from looking a little proud, the way Connor brightens, “lieutenant worthy work, soon, if you keep at it. But even if CyberLife _hadn’t_ sent you a damn piece of junk instead of an RK800—”

“I assure you, Captain,” he replies, “an older model’s not a problem. I'm familiar with androids and I’m perfectly capable of working with… challenging personalities.” 

Fowler’s hands fold in his lap as he casts him a sympathetic look. The faint wrinkles on his face seem to momentarily deepen; he’s silent for a moment, finally exhaling the sort of heavy sigh reserved for uncrackable cases. Or for the too-eager young detectives on them. “Just watch yourself, all right? And watch that android. It shows _one_ sign of going deviant, we’re takin’ the thing out and shipping its scraps right back to CyberLife. Got it?” 

Connor’s mouth twitches into an uncertain smile. 

“Got it.”

“Now go make sure it doesn’t leak some kinda malware onto our database.”

Fowler doesn't need to tell him twice. Offering the captain a polite farewell as he leaves, he makes a beeline down the stairs, across the station, strolling alongside the wall of charging androids-- searching for one in particular. Luckily, picking him out isn't difficult, and it's not long before he slows to a stop in front of him: amongst a sea of familiar police models and (occasionally identical) faces, there's just the one bearing even the slightest mark of wrinkle or graying. It's shockingly lifelike in design, Connor notes-- Hank, standing up against the charging station with his eyes closed, may as well be a real human cop snatching a fleeting moment of rest.

He nearly reconciles Hank's apparent "age" with how old a model he is, before he realizes it's impossible.

There'd been some logic to it, if he recalled it all correctly. Someone at CyberLife, he'd heard, had proposed that an android that looked older would be treated like it were, respected for that first impression of assumed experience. And so they'd wound up with a model resembling man in the very last of his prime: the human mind visually prompted by the artificial beginnings of salt-and-pepper hair, artist-sculpted crow's feet. Connor's head angles slightly, as his eyes at last light upon the LED that swirls yellow on Hank's temple. Perhaps it's worked on him, after all. Either that or Connor, studying his partner's features just a little too carefully, is just distracted.

Which he doesn't need to be on the job, so he clears his throat and finally speaks up. Things are uneven with them, new as this partnership is, and as rocky as the previous night's interrogation had been. (Hank, splattered blue with blood that wasn't his own, had even refused to speak to Connor: the fault, they both acknowledged wordlessly, had been his own.) His tone's deliberate, an arm's length away as they continue to test the waters.

"Good morning, Hank." 

... And... he's met with silence.

"Hank? ... Are you on standby?"

"I'm charging, Detective," is the curt reply; the android opens his eyes and his LED blinks orange, blinks red. He scowls. The expression's somehow deeper than mere irritation: androids can't truly feel pain, he knows, and yet Connor wonders, studying the lines of his face. Hank continues with words as dull as if they'd been rehearsed. "The AN500 series of criminal investigation aides are presently incompatible with the Detroit Police Department's charging stations. Which I make clear to CyberLife every time they send me out to be training wheels."

"Oh." An awkward beat of silence, and then he realizes-- "If you're not compatible, how are you charging?" Connor frowns, leaning forward-- just an inch too far into Hank's space. "It's not damaging you to be sitting here and charging, is it? If we're going to be partners for a while, I'm happy to make other arrangements." 

Hank scrutinizes him back, LED flickering. Connor, conscious of himself once more, leans away. For the way those lines are forming on Hank's brow, he can't tell if he's loading or actually mulling his offer over. "No," he finally answers, "Output's different, but if I focus on adapting it, it'll be fine. Just. Don't talk to me." A pause, and Hank adds, stiffly: "...I. Appreciate the offer."

A thank you. This is going... somewhere, he supposes. Connor stuffs a hand into his pocket, turning a quarter he finds there over and over between his fingers.

"So what do you do when you're off-duty?"

"No talking."

"Okay, Hank."

\---

Hank opens his eyes to a darkness that hums and crackles. He blinks once, green wire frames and scrolling digits passing through his periphery; he blinks twice, and four walls form around him; he blinks again and the kitchen of a small, sparsely-decorated house materializes: an exact match to some other home's floor plan, miles away and equally bare, somewhere within the heart of Detroit. Save for the collection of files and tablets stacked precariously on the dining table. Outside, the rain falls on a loop, the same droplet striking the same unstable shingle above his head every 17 seconds, over and over again. The sink drips water on a (merciful 45 second) loop, too-- a tap-tap-tap beating on in an endless rhythm.

When he glances out the window, the sky, too, flickers briefly in numbers, in neon.

Hank shakes his head, as if to clear it. He shrugs his coat off, the motion practiced, and drapes it over the back of a chair; the wood creaks beneath his weight no matter how slowly he sinks into it. This place, like him, is losing its grip-- but a new mission is a new mission, no matter how he or whatever fuckin' abstracted metaphorical space in his head feels about it. With a grumble, he leans across the table for the newest, bright blue folder and allows his skin to creep backwards, shrinking away from his fingers.

The police records, it seems, have uploaded just fine. Minus a bit of broken code or mismatched character here or there. Each file forms translucent and blue in his outstretched and plastic-white palm, fizzling out to the next on his unspoken command: no matter how many of them he flips through, however, the story they tell simply doesn't add up. Different models, different functions, owners of all sorts... with more than 200 reported cases of deviants-- _dozens_ more than the last time he'd been activated for field work-- you'd think there'd be some sort of agreement. But no such luck. The last file he browses dissipates. The skin of his hand forms once more.

"Way to set me up for success, CyberLife." Hank grunts. "Figures."

The inside of Hank's mind quivers. Everything seems to blur, go wavy at the edges, as if filtered through summer heat: the dripping sink, a photograph from an old case still propped up on his table, his own hands. He flexes his fingers into and out of a fist.

"Fucking figures."

And all there is left is the file of _Connor Raymond, Detroit PD,_ perpetually pinned to the top of the stack. Connor's photo is a few years out of date, Hank notes: a fresh-faced police academy graduate beaming wide, hovering above the two lines of his home address and birth date. Hank's already viewed the minutiae of his file enough times. Another review will only waste valuable time and resources, because he already knows everything that he needs to know about his new partner.

_"If we're going to be partners for a while, I'm happy to make other arrangements."_

Hank, AN500, is a machine. He has never understood why humans are so sentimental.

The world wavers again. More insistently. Hank stands, gripping the back of his chair, and in the next instant he's blinking rapidly in the police station and his sensors are registering an open-handed impact against his cheek.

\---

"--too hard, sh-- Hank? Hank! It's Connor."

"I can see that, Detective."

Connor, undeterred, takes a step backward. "We've just received word of another deviant. I figured you didn't need to sleep, so I came to collect you for the investigation. Let's head out."

If he didn't know any better, he'd say that Hank looked groggy.

"I'll drive."

In retrospect, he probably should've woken him up differently.


End file.
